


Fourth Base

by dracoqueen22



Series: Numerology [4]
Category: Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: AU, First Meetings, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Numerology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-22
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2017-12-30 03:31:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1013570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dracoqueen22/pseuds/dracoqueen22
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Superman seeks advice and Batman doesn't have time for this.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sometimes, having Lois Lane for a best friend is more trouble than she's worth. Clark is both glad and relieved that their brief romance had fizzled faster than a dollar store firework. He can't imagine how much stress he'd be under if they were romantically linked.   
  
Bad enough that she causes him untold amounts of stress through their friendship alone. Lois is a super-magnet for trouble. Clark likens it to her special ability.   
  
“I told you, Smallville. Your happy-go-lucky small-town charm isn't going to work on him,” Lois chastises in his ear. He can all but hear the accompanying eye-roll.   
  
Superman grumbles, dodges a swipe from Grundy, and delivers a fierce uppercut to the kind-of-undead's jaw.   
  
“I'm running out of ideas here,” Superman says with a quick activation of his comlink. “You're supposed to be helping me.”   
  
“I am helping you.”   
  
Grundy roars and launches himself forward, surprisingly agile for as large as he is. Superman intercepts before he can trample Flash, their torsos colliding in an earth-rattling boom.   
  
Flash gives him a thumbs up before blurring away to dismantle that bomb lickety-split. Or, if all else fails, take the whole device and run. Nothing lives in Antarctica, right?  
  
“Look, Bats are solitary creatures by nature,” Lois natters on, the sound of a Daily Planet in motion filling the background. “You have to be subtle.”   
  
Subtle? Superman is a master of subtle!  
  
He slams his shoulder into Grundy's ribcage, driving the undead back, and follows it up with a double-fisted slam to Grundy's chest. The big man groans, stumbles, and Superman strikes from above, slamming his face into the sidewalk. Concrete crackles like popcorn.   
  
“And a little flattery couldn't hurt,” Lois adds. “Not to mention toning down on all the, well, you-ness.”   
  
Superman squints at nothing, hovering above the ground and Grundy. “The what?”   
  
“You know...” Lois makes a helpless sound. “The flying, super-strong, super-fast, perfect little near-god thing you've got going on.”   
  
Superman blinks. “You want me to stop being me?”   
  
“Only a little. You can be intimidating, you know.” Lois pauses, as though considering. “Well, when you're not being the poster child for Boy Scouts everywhere.”   
  
Grundy twitches as though gearing himself up for round three.   
  
Superman flicks the back of his head, careful to minimize the blow to incapacitation levels.   
  
Grundy goes still and Superman grabs a nearby lamppost to keep him that way. It was already broken anyway. The lamppost, not Grundy.   
  
“Lois, you're not making any sense.”   
  
“That's because you're not listening,” Lois retorts with an audible sigh. “Crap. Gotta go, Smallville. Mr. White's on a rampage.”   
  
“Wait! Lois!”   
  
Click.   
  
Superman's shoulders sink. No help there.   
  
Flash returns, dumping the mangled remains of the incendiary device at Superman's feet, dusting off his hands. “Piece of cake,” he boasts.  
  
“Where's--”  
  
An echo of green from the corner of Superman's eyes and then Toyman drops down next to Grundy, wrapped in strips of glowing rope.   
  
“--Toyman,” Superman finishes and grins. “I knew working together was a good idea.”   
  
Flash scratches his nose, glancing at the two minor villains whose attempt to wreak havoc in Central City had not been very well thought out. “Feels a bit like overkill.”   
  
Green Lantern shrugs. “We have to learn to work as a team. Better now than when our backs are to the wall.”   
  
“Still... disarming bombs? Not really my thing,” Flash says.   
  
“That's why recruiting Batman is so important,” Superman points out as the sound of police sirens getting closer echo around the buildings. That the local press is gathering is also noticeable. “We need a tactical adviser.”   
  
“We're doing fine so far. Face it, Superman. Batman has no interest in working with us,” Green Lantern says.   
  
“We all need help sometimes,” Superman insists.   
  
Flash shakes his head, turning away and waving them off. “Right. So good luck with that. This is my town. I'll deal with the authorities.”   
  
Green Lantern, too, gives Superman an exasperated look. “Sometimes, I swear your optimism meter is set impossibly high. Let me know how that works out.”   
  
He powers up his ring, taking flight in a blur of green, off to do whatever it is he does when he's not assisting the Justice League or attending a mission for the Green Lantern corps.   
  
Well, they are of no help in the matter. Diana has already expressed her disbelief of Batman joining them and J'onn has been keeping his opinion to himself. He just gives Superman that long stare, like he is looking right through him, and claims that everything will work itself out.   
  
The police take Grundy and Toyman into custody. Flash gives a statement, smiling for the cameras. And Superman makes himself scarce. If Lois is no help, and his fellow Leaguers aren't either, there is only one other place he can go for some useful advice.   
  
To Smallville it is.   
  
A quick costume change later and Clark Kent touches down on the front porch of the Kent Farm. His father isn't home, but he can smell the unmistakable scents of an apple pie in progress. There might be an extra bounce in his step as he heads for the kitchen where his mother is bending to put something in the oven.   
  
“Clark!” she greets without so much as turning to see him in the doorway. “Shouldn't you be working?”   
  
He grins, leaning against the counter to admire the array of baked goods sitting on the second tier. “The villains are in prison and Lois is covering the press conference.”   
  
The oven door closes with a thump as Martha Kent turns around, brushing a curl of grey hair out of her face. “I notice you left her with the dirty work.”   
  
“It's her fault. She gave me bad advice.”   
  
“About what?”   
  
Clark rolls his shoulders, reaching over the counter for a tantalizing blueberry pie, but his mother taps his knuckles before he can get close. He subsides, disappointed.   
  
“I'm trying to recruit someone and having little success.” Clark pauses and clarifies, “By which I mean none.”   
  
His mother nods slowly, untying her apron and setting it on the counter. “Would this person happen to be of the special persuasion?”   
  
Clark's grin deepens. Oh. Batman is special all right. “You could say that. Some say he's the terror of the night.”   
  
She looks at him, tilting her head. “Oh, my. You have your hands full with that one.”   
  
“Don't I know it.” Clark groans, resting his head on the counter top, feeling the weight of his failures hanging over him. “He's the most stubborn man I know.”   
  
His mother chuckles, her eyes sparkling with humor. “Oh, I don't know. I might have to give that title to you or your father. Lord knows how often the two of you have butted heads.”   
  
Clark turns his head, giving his mother his most pleading look. Pie will go a long way to curbing his disappointment.   
  
Martha sighs and reaches into the cabinet for a plate. Clark knows that sigh. It is concession. He will be getting a slice of pie.   
  
“I assume you've tried talking to him,” she says over the sound of rattling silverware and the crinkle of the pie tin.   
  
“Yes.”   
  
“And I can also assume that he told you to get out of his city, though I am sure his words were less polite.”   
  
Clark inhales deeply as the pie is set in front of him, blueberry juice oozing from between two strips of buttery-gold crust.   
  
“On multiple occasions,” Clark replies, reaching for the fork, only to pause. He can't eat this. It isn't ready yet.   
  
A heaping spoonful of fresh whipped cream plops onto his slice. He has the best mother on Earth. Clark digs in.   
  
His mother leans against the counter with her hip, watching him. “I don't know much about Gotham's favored hero, but I've gotten the impression he prefers to work alone. Gotham's a different sort of city than what you're used to, Clark. Do you know who he is?”   
  
“No.” This is a point of contention for Clark. “Though somehow he figured out who I am.” Though he doesn't know who Kal-el is so it is a point in Clark's favor. “I try being friendly but that only seems to make him angrier.”   
  
“I suspect your idea of friendliness doesn't appeal to him,” Ma replies with an amused curve of her lips. “Tried to help him, didn't you?”   
  
“Most people like that kind of thing,” Clark declares, aghast, and consoles himself with a large bite of pie.   
  
“Most people aren't Batman.”   
  
“I don't think the planet could handle more than one of him anyway.”   
  
Mother and son exchange glances with a soft laugh. Clark scoops up another bite of pie, whipped cream wobbling atop the crust.   
  
“I'm out of ideas,” Clark says. “I was hoping you'd give me better advice than Lois.”   
  
Ma makes that humming sound again and starts to dig under the cabinet, pulling out a travel box that she uses for her pies. “Talk to him,” she says, and when Clark opens his mouth because he's already tried that, she clarifies, “And by that I mean, talk to him as a person and not as Batman.”   
  
“But I don't know who he is.”   
  
One apple pie is packaged up and set on the counter next to Clark. “That will come later. For now, work on making him understand that you don't intend to merely add him to a collection of superheroes.”   
  
Clark squints at her, not sure if he understands where she is going with this. “But I do want him to join the Justice League.”   
  
Ma pats him on the shoulder. “Think about it a bit more, Clark. You'll understand what I mean.” She takes his empty plate and fork from him, putting them in the sink. “Now shoo. I've got baking to finish, dinner to start, and I'm sure there's someone in peril somewhere that you could be helping.”   
  
Clark slides away from the counter. She has a point. He reaches for the box on the counter, assuming that she means it for him.   
  
“Thanks, Ma,” he says, circling the counter to kiss her on the cheek.   
  
“You're welcome. And that's not for you,” she replies, running the water to start the dishes. “Call it a gesture of good will.”   
  
“For Batman?”   
  
“No one hates apple pie.”   
  
Clark gives the box a dubious look. It seems a waste to give such a good pie to someone with such a sour disposition. But if Ma thinks it will work, he supposes he can't hurt worse than anything else he's tried.   
  
“If you say so,” he says.   
  
Clark leaves a few minutes later, after doing a few chores around the farm to express his thanks. A quick costume change and he speeds to Gotham, the box tucked under his arm.  
  
The sun fades, night falling with alarming speed in Gotham. It is as though once the sun sets, darkness rushes in to fill all the empty spaces. Whereas in Metropolis, the sunlight seems to linger forever. No wonder Batman has adopted a dark persona, patrolling only at night when he is most frightening to criminals.   
  
It takes him thirty minutes to find Batman taking on a small army of thugs attempting to thieve an armored car. Superman's first instinct is to swoop down, knock them all out, and offer Batman a little bit of hero camaraderie. He resists, only just, because his Ma's advice still echoes in his ears.   
  
Instead, he watches.   
  
Batman takes down no less than eight men and women of various skill with a combination of several martial arts, some unique equipment, and an impressive degree of acrobatics. He even produces several pairs of handcuffs – Bat-themed of course – to keep them pinned until the local authorities arrive. Impressive. Then again, Superman already knows that Batman is.  
  
“What do you want?”   
  
The growled question floats up to Superman, who nearly falls off the fire escape in surprise. When had Batman noticed him?   
  
He hops off the metal stairs, floating down to solid ground. “How did you know I was there?”   
  
“Trade secret,” Batman mutters and finishes securing the last criminal. “What's it going to take to get you to stop stalking me?”   
  
Stalking...?  
  
Superman isn't sure if he should be embarrassed or offended.   
  
“I'm not stalking you,” he argues, and then forces a deep breath. Best not to rile up Batman or he'll pull out one of those grapple hooks and leave Superman in the dark. Again.   
  
Batman snorts. “Could have fooled me.”   
  
Well, at least this better resembles a conversation compared to their previous encounters.   
  
“Don't you have somewhere to be?” Batman growls, retrieving a few stray bat-shaped shurikens from the sidewalk and walls.   
  
Superman tilts his head, listening. “Not right now.”   
  
“Of course you don't,” Batman mutters, but Superman gets the impression he isn't meant to hear it, so he pretends he hadn't.   
  
“You, uh--”  
  
 _A little flattery can't hurt._  
  
“That was interesting style of martial arts you used,” Superman says, resisting the urge to help Batman though it makes him twitch all over to do so. “Have you been training long?”   
  
The Dark Knight draws himself up straight, head swinging toward Superman though his eyes are still hidden by those damnable lenses. On anyone else, Superman might have called that look confused, but it is hard to say so with Batman since all he can see are lips and a chin.   
  
Batman's mouth opens and closes and opens again. Finally, he whirls on a heel and strides away, cape floating in a dark wave after him. “I don't have time for this,” he says.   
  
“Wait!”   
  
Superman speeds across the ground, appearing in front of Batman before the other hero can blink.   
  
Batman jerks to a halt, though Superman can all but see the menace rising from his body.   
  
_Call it a gesture of good will._  
  
“This is for you!” Superman thruststhe apple pie in Batman's direction. No one turns down free dessert unless they have a heart of coal.   
  
“You baked me a pie?” Batman asks, voice dripping with disbelief.   
  
“Well, no, I didn't. My mother did.”   
  
“Your mother baked a pie for me.”   
  
“Actually, she baked it for a church group, but we decided you needed it more.”   
  
Superman is treated to another one of those long, skeptical looks.   
  
“You,” Batman says, “are the single, strangest alien I have ever met.”   
  
But, Superman notices, he takes the pie.   
  
One dark eyebrow arches. “I'm rather certain I'm the only alien you've ever met. So to speak, since I still don't know who you are.”   
  
“Then let's keep it that way.” Batman steps around him, pressing a button on his belt that causes the nearby pile of overflowing trash cans to shimmer and fade into a sleek, black car. Impressive.   
  
A panel slides aside, leaving room for Batman to leap into the front seat and set the pie on the passenger side. Though why such a notorious loner would even have a passenger side is a mystery.   
  
“And stay out of my city,” Batman orders, just before the panel shuts on his car and he starts up the engine with a ground-rattling roar.   
  
He shoots out of the alley, leaving Superman with half a dozen bound criminals as has become the status quo. He could follow Batman all subtlely and figure out his identity that way, but Superman bets that won't endear the prickly crime-fighter to him. Best not.   
  
Still, he took the pie. And he didn't leave in a huff.   
  
All in all, Superman considers this a win.   
  


***


	2. Addendum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Batman contemplates the meaning of pie. Alfred keeps it simple.

Bruce is confused.   
  
He analyzes. He theorizes. He collects data on all manner of subjects and people. He defeats his villains not by sheer strength or magic or special ability, but by guile and intelligence. He outsmarts and outwits them. He wins by thinking ten steps ahead.   
  
When it comes to Superman, however, Bruce finds himself flabbergasted.   
  
What, he wonders, is the purpose of this pie?   
  
The batcave carries a chill as always. His chair is straight-backed, nigh uncomfortable to remind him that this isn't a game, this isn't supposed to be fun and relaxing. His cowl is pushed back, though he is still clad in the batsuit with the night's accumulation of rips, tears, and a bite mark on his shoulder that Alfred is currently stitching. He'll have to find a better fabric.   
  
The pie is sitting on the console in front of him. It is still carefully wrapped in the aluminum foil, though Bruce had peeled back one small corner earlier just to confirm his suspicions. It is indeed filled with apples, the scent of cinnamon wafting out with tempting alacrity.   
  
Bruce glowers at the pie, chin braced on his knuckles, elbow braced on the arm of his chair. He stares at the pie, the golden-brown crust, and contemplates its meaning. What is that big blue idiot planning? What purpose could a gift of pastry possibly serve? As if Batman could be swayed by flaky crust and a sweet glaze.   
  
“Master Bruce?”   
  
“He gave me a pie, Alfred,” Bruce replies, barely wincing as Alfred stitches him up and spritzes him with an antibacterial spray. He'll be sore tomorrow but fortunately, Bruce has gotten quite used to being sore.   
  
Pain, after all, is nothing but a state of mind.   
  
“I noticed.” Humor is rich in Alfred's voice, but Bruce knows that if he were to turn around, his guardian would be giving him the same bland expression as always. He's a master at concealing his emotions. “Shall I get a plate for you?”   
  
“It's probably poisoned.”   
  
“I highly doubt that, Master Bruce.”   
  
“Then it contains a tracking device.”   
  
“You have scanned it three times. It is nothing more than an apple pie.” Alfred pauses, taping a bandage over the bite bark. “And judging from the scent of it, home made.”   
  
Bruce's eyes narrow. “Why?”   
  
“I suspect, Master Bruce, that he was trying to be nice.” Alfred pulls out a handkerchief and wipes his hands before gathering up his medical supplies. “Though given your current occupation, I am not surprised that you are incapable of recognizing such a gesture.”   
  
Bruce swivels his chair around, staring at his guardian. “Nice,” he repeats, careful to keep his tone flat. “It looks more like a bribe to me.” As if Batman could be swayed by fresh pastry into joining Superman's league of heroes.   
  
Bats are supposed to be solitary creatures. Or at least, this Bat is.   
  
“Only you would think that,” says Alfred with a barely restrained sigh. “Shall I bring a plate and fork for you, sir?”   
  
Bruce returns his chair to its usual position, one hand plucking at the keyboard. “Yes.”   
  
“Very good, sir.”   
  
He hears, more than sees, Alfred turn toward the stairs.   
  
“And stop smirking,” Bruce orders.   
  
Amusement enriches the older man's voice. “As you wish.”  
  


***


	3. Addendum Take Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Martha gets the surprise of a lifetime when Batman shows up on her doorstep, as Bruce Wayne no less.

When the doorbell rings, Martha blinks in surprise. She isn't expecting any visitors today. So she turns off the tap, dries her hands on her apron, and heads to the front door. Perhaps it is a delivery? Jonathon hadn't told her to expect one but that man, she sighs. Sometimes, he forgets to mention the little things.   
  
She checks her hair in the mirror, tucks a stray curl behind her ear, and then opens the front door. Only to blink yet again.   
  
Her first thought is salesman. But no, that suit is no cheap department store purchase and his shoes are far too shiny for that. The gleaming sports car, sitting not inconspicuously in the driveway next to her mud-spattered Ford, is further proof otherwise.   
  
Besides, she has never seen a salesman this handsome. Those eyes! Lord help her. Martha is a happily married woman but this unexpected visitor seems to have come from all the best ends of the gene pool. He's also carrying some kind of gift basket, red ribbon bow rustling in the early morning breeze.   
  
“Can I help you?” she asks, smiling, all pleasant and not once stammering.   
  
The man shifts, mouth opening and closing as though disconcerted, before he seems to regain control of himself. “I wanted to thank you.”   
  
“Beg pardon?” Why would a stranger want to thank her?  
  
A hint of red dusts the man's cheeks. Just a hint. The cellophane-wrapped basket in his hand crinkles noisily.   
  
“I wanted to thank you,” he repeats in that deep voice. “The apple pie was delicious and I wanted to express my appreciation.” He held the basket out to her.   
  
Politeness had her reflexively accepting it. Apple pie? Martha's confusion grows stronger. This man certainly doesn't look like a member of the local church.   
  
And then. Realization.   
  
Her eyes round. “Oh,” she says, her turn now to crinkle the cellophane. “Oh. You're very welcome. I am glad you enjoyed it.”   
  
Clark is going to be jealous. So very jealous.   
  
“Would you like to come in?” Martha adds because she'll be darned if she's going to let this opportunity slide. Clark can barely manage to hold a civil conversation with the elusive Batman and could use all the help Martha can provide.   
  
And because she has no doubt Batman is already contemplating how to escape, she sweetens the deal. “I have muffins in the oven. Blueberry yogurt.”   
  
“I...” He pauses as though considering before he continues, “Yes. I would. Thank you very much.”   
  
Martha grins and holds the door open, remarking to herself that it is no small wonder Clark has become so fascinated by Batman.  
  
He stays for an hour. Martha learns a great many things about him, including his name, where he's from, the tragic loss of his parents, and his affection for apple pie. She also learns of Alfred and before Bruce – she's giddy with this knowledge – leaves, Martha gives him a tray of muffins to take home to his butler slash father figure.   
  
She tells him that he's welcome to come back anytime he wishes. She gives him her number, so he can call and see if Clark is here first, if he wants to continue to avoid Superman.   
  
He thanks her. He smiles, and it's such a handsome look for a handsome man that Martha almost blushes herself.   
  
She tells him to bring Alfred next time or at least allow them to exchange numbers.   
  
And he tells her that between the two of them, she and Alfred, they might take over the world. It's an honest joke and Martha laughs, but secretly plots to get a hold of Alfred Pennyworth anyway. Because Bruce is right. She and Alfred, working together, would be a force neither Clark nor Bruce could deny.   
  
Bruce finally leaves in that slick, shiny car and Martha waits two hours before calling Clark to brag. He doesn't answer, so she leaves him a message, and is almost but not really surprised when Clark shows up on her doorstep less than twenty minutes later. His hair is ruffled, his tie askew, and there's an inkstain on his left cuff.   
  
She hopes he hasn't left Lois in the middle of some assignment. Her anger is one not as easily assuaged by Martha's apple pie.   
  
Martha serves him a muffin and goes back to peeling potatoes. “Yes, he was here,” she confirms. “And no, I won't tell you who he is or what he looks like.”  
  
“But--”  
  
“No.”   
  
Clark wilts like a week-old bunch of Valentines roses. “You are supposed to be on my side,” he says and bites into his muffin. Crumbs drip onto his shirt and Martha sighs, tossing him a handtowel.   
  
Boys. She shakes her head. Bruce had been immaculate, not so much as a drip on his suit. Alfred had raised him well.   
  
“I am, dear. That does not mean that I am going to ruin all your hard work by breaking his trust. When he wants you to know, he will tell you.”  
  
Clark huffs, consoling himself with another muffin.   
  
“He's turned you against me.”  
  
Martha laughs. “Not quite.” She pauses, giving her son a sideways look. “He's very handsome.”   
  
Clark almost chokes on his next bite. “Ma!” he protests in the midst of coughing. “Why does that even matter?”   
  
“Oh. No reason.”   
  
Martha grins to herself and sweeps a pile of peels into a bowl. No reason at all.   
  


***


End file.
